Mutts
by truly unruly
Summary: The country of Panem is not a safe place - not even for its mightiest heroes. Hunger Games AU.
1. The Nightmare

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Avengers**_**, **_**The Hunger Games**_** or the small passages taken from **_**Catching Fire**_**. Those are the properties of Marvel and Suzanne Collins respectively. **

**Notes: What have I done. No, seriously, I love AUs and, for some reason, I **_**really **_**love **_**Hunger Games **_**AUs. I got this idea a few days ago, after a night spent watching **_**Thor **_**and **_**Captain America **_**instead of sleeping, but kept telling myself that writing it would probably Not Work Out Well. I never listen to myself. Oh dear. Nevertheless, I hope some people can glean some enjoyment out of this?**

**Further Notes: Rated T for inevitable violence and angst. This will be told from Steve's (Captain America) perspective. As many of the **_**Avengers**_**/**_**Thor**_**/**_**Captain America **_**characters I can fit in will feature. Pairings I'm not sure of yet, but there will probably be some eventually. I have not read any comics, only seen the movies, so I apologize for any ignorance in that department. I will do my very best to keep them in-character so I hope any readers will poke me with a stick if I waver on this front.**

**Essentially, this will be the story of **_**The Hunger Games **_**series with Collins' characters substituted by **_**Avengers **_**characters. So Katniss Everdeen won't be entering archery competitions against Hawkeye any time soon. That's another crossover entirely.**

* * *

Prologue

"…_this year will be the seventh-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"_

"_When the laws for the Games were laid out first, nearly seventy-five years ago, they dictated that every year, each of the twelve districts of Panem would offer up one male and one female tribute to take part in the Hunger Games, a glorious and historic fight to the death, to bring honour to their districts and remind us of the horror and fruitlessness of the rebel cause, and the suffering brought upon their fellows and the Capitol._

"…_these laws also demanded that, every twenty-five years, the anniversary would be marked by a Quarter Quell…_

"_On the twenty-fifty anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it._

"_On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes._

"_And now we honour our third Quarter Quell. On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors._

"_May the odds be ever in your favour."_

* * *

The night before the Reaping, I dream that I am falling.

I awaken with sweat-soaked sheets twisted in my hands and the taste of fear glued to my back teeth. Even in my bedroom, well lit by a cruelly sunny day, my mind lingers on the final moments of that vision: the charcoal-grey sky, the blur of rock and snow, the jump of my stomach and the ache of my scream as I plummet.

It takes minutes for me to relax my fingers, let alone force myself upright. It's still early, I think—some hours still remain to be passed in sickening anticipation. My eyes burn with the need to curl back up under my quilt and deny the world for a little longer but, at this point, I know that sleep will never return.

I don't want it to.

Instead, I stand and cross to my wardrobe, pull on my heavy boots and a stretched old shirt over the ratty trousers I slept in. My father's leather jacket hangs in the kitchen, next to the back door. From this back door, I can survey a rolling green field and, distantly, the silver gleam of the chain-link fence that separates this side of District 12 from the wilderness. Bathed in sunshine, it looks deceptively pretty.

I steel myself and turn to leave through the front door. I will not return to this house again.

* * *

I am one of three inhabitants of the Victor's Village.

* * *

It is silent.

On any other day, at this hour, the district would be bustling, the people breathing in the shouts of workers and pedestrians as easily as air. On Reaping Day, families huddle in homes; the mines are closed; a sense of dread and grief hangs over the empty streets. Even this year, the people remain inside—perhaps out of respect for the three who will be chosen today.

It is quiet enough that I can hear the girl even a road away. She stands next to a ramshackle little house, in what is undoubtedly her best yellow dress, clutching two hands to her heart protectively. She's on the edge of tears.

"You shouldn't say things like that, Brock!" she's crying. The two dark-haired boys before her—her brothers, I suppose as I observe—scoff at one another before looking back to her.

"Don't be such a baby," one of them sneers, "You don't really—"

The girl stamps her foot, "I'm _not _a baby! You guys are being _jerks_!"

"Ah, you shouldn't interrupt," the other boy tells her mockingly and my hands ball into fists in my pockets, "You know what happens to little babies who are rude. _They get shipped off to the Hunger Games—_"

The call tears its way out of my mouth before I can stop it, "Excuse me,"

Three pairs of eyes flick to me and simultaneously widen when they realize who has just spoken to them.

"M-m-Mr. Rogers!" one boy yelps, "We—we didn't mean—"

"You shouldn't scare your little sister, boys," I say sternly, "Can't you see how you've upset her?"

The boys glance at their teary-eyed sister and then look away, awkward and chastised. I can't help but feel a small thrill of pride up my spine. I never have liked bullies.

"Sorry, Henny," a boy mutters and Henny noticeably perks up.

"That's okay," she says with such an air of graciousness and solemnity that it seems almost funny. Then she looks up at me with a sweet smile, "Thank you, Mr. Rogers!"

I grin back, "That's okay, Henny. And—" I hesitate. "—and you shouldn't listen to them. Don't be too scared about the Hunger Games."

_Yet_. She's still several years off of being entered into the Reaping and even then nothing's written in stone. But she misinterprets my words and her smile widens.

"I know, Mr. Rogers. You'd keep me safe," she chirps and then turns to her brothers, "Come on, Mom will be looking for us. Bye-bye, Mr. Rogers!"

I don't reply. I _can't _reply. Instead I watch the three small figures walk back into their old house and carefully shut the wooden door behind them. I stand there for a long while, thinking to myself, _No, I wouldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't even keep myself safe._

Distantly, I hear the clock tower begin to chime. It's nine o'clock now, I guess. One hour left to go.

With a sigh, I begin to walk again, this time towards the Justice Building and the square. If there is one good aspect of the upcoming Quarter Quell, I decide, it is that the children this year are safe.


	2. The Reaping

Chapter One

Once upon a time, I hated being the centre of attention. I think I've become a little more used to it now.

It doesn't make the burn of thousands of pairs of eyes on me any more bearable.

The day is hot and sultry and I can already feel beads of sweat crawling down my back. On stage, before the tired grandeur of the Justice Building, the mayor is fanning himself with his speech notes. Sunlight glints off of the metal of the machine guns trained on the crowd; when I blink after glancing at them, I see white starbursts behind my eyelids.

I stand in one of two roped-off pens between the makeshift platform and the restless audience. I don't dare to look around or at my fellow Victors. Instead, I keep my eyes on the screen erected above us as the history of the Hunger Games plays out once again. At this point, I can probably recite the narration of the video myself, but I stay focused upon it nonetheless. It's the only way I'm still holding myself together.

With a final triumphant blast of music, the screen fades to black, peters out into static, and the District escort totters up to centre stage. Most of the escorts churned out by the Capitol range from irritating to downright awful; Lorraine Belle falls somewhere in the middle. She's a vision in puffy sky-blue, her blonde hair piled on top of her head and her pink mouth already in its trademark pucker. My corners of my own lips turn down of their own accord.

"As always," she trills, without a moment's dallying, "ladies first!"

She doesn't lack any of her usual verve even as she dips her hand into the empty Reaping ball to her right, at the bottom of which everyone knows is only one slip of paper. I shift from foot to foot as she stretches her fingers over the thin air, advancing slowly to the base. Behind me, the silent crowd grows tenser. Nerves knot around my stomach, tighter with each passing second.

Finally, Lorraine withdraws the crisp slip from the bowl and unfolds it cheerfully. With an air of satisfaction, she leans into the microphone and calls out, "_Natasha Romanoff._"

In the pen next to me, there is no hesitation, no moment of reaction. Romanoff easily tugs the rope barrier loose and strides up towards the stage, her expression betraying nothing. She was prepared, has been for a long time, for this. The nerves coil up my spine and settle on my shoulders, making me feel about a ton heavier.

I am not ready.

"And now for the boys!" Lorraine states without even addressing the stoic woman who has just joined her. Instead she reaches for the second dome and the audience gives an almost synchronized shift. The sun glares down and I imagine that the piece of paper Lorraine catches will be withered into ash.

She catches my name.

The knot abruptly dissolves and I'm weightless.

I shoot a glance at my companion—Chester Phillips, my mentor once before and now again—and I wonder if I look as bereft as I feel. Phillips' eyes are loaded with sadness but he remains straight-laced and quiet.

"Come on up, Steve!" coaxes Lorraine. My feet obey without question. The steps up to the stage seem to echo around the square; at the same time, I'm gliding to the stairs, up onto the platform, like I'm flying. It's so different to last time, six years ago, when I was smaller and bigger than now all at once.

Romanoff watches me coolly as I stand on Lorraine's side. Our escort is quivering with excitement as she curls a hand around our wrists and lifts them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present this year's tributes: Natasha Romanoff and Steve Rogers!"

* * *

"I'm not your friend," Romanoff tells me in a careful voice, "I wasn't then and I'm not now."

I nod and turn my eyes back out of the window. District 12 is fading into a distant dull blur as the train bullets away, towards the Capitol. I had no-one to see me off, so I spent the final hour we had before departure with my head between my knees, just breathing. I think that hour will be what keeps me afloat these next few days.

Six years ago, I had both Chester Phillips and Natasha Romanoff working to keep me alive—me and Danica, who was four years younger than me and who, like so many others, I can bear neither to remember nor forget. Phillips was who I spent most of the preparation days with; Romanoff had vanished off immediately to who-knows-where.

She had won the Games three years before me, when she was fourteen. I remember being in awe of her. All the boys were. She came across as quiet, soft-spoken in her interviews, and oh-so-beautiful, all red curls and big eyes. She seemed too delicate and lovely for the brutality of the Hunger Games.

What the interviews didn't reveal was that she was calculating and she was quick. She spent the first three days gathering resources while the Career tributes—those from Districts 1, 2 and 4, who had been illegally trained specifically to win the Games—took out most of the competition. Then she snuck up on them.

I still remember quite vividly watching her winning kill. She was crouched in the branches of a tree, watching as the District 1 boy stumbled into the clearing. Before she died, the District 7 girl had twisted a dagger into his gut. His hands were slippery with blood but he was still aware, still ready for a fight.

Natasha Romanoff, the pretty girl from the poorest district, wasted little time and no noise in swinging down, hooking her legs around his neck and snapping it.

I remember thinking, as Romanoff was declared Victor and swept away back to the glamour of the Capitol, that the future District 12 tributes, with her as a mentor, would have a better shot than ever at coming home alive.

They hadn't, though. Not until me, a sickly little guy who nobody thought to bet on.

I think that Romanoff did, though. She had vanished the moment that we arrived in the Capitol and, for some time, I resented that. In the arena, however, I started to receive gifts—from sponsors that I didn't know I had. Nothing game-changing, but food and blankets made the difference between life and death in that arena, a snow-clogged mountain where more tributes than ever before recorded were killed by the environment.

I've never found out what she said to the sponsors—I've barely spoken to her since I was lifted out of that arena—but I know that I owe my continued life in part to Romanoff.

"I get it," I say finally. Romanoff nods as well but does not relax. She doesn't trust me.

We aren't friends. We _can't _be. She may have helped me six years ago, but the rules have changed and she may very well be the one to kill me now.

* * *

Dinner that night is a solemn affair, with only Lorraine attempting to make conversation. I wish I could say that nerves stole my appetite away and that I only pick at my food, but I had not eaten all day and, when I laid eyes on the set table, I realized how ravenous I was. Romanoff watches with faintly amused eyes as I wolf down first a pasta dish, then the beef stew and finally some sticky, overpoweringly sweet dessert that I have not encountered before. Undoubtedly, she's thinking about how shaky I was after my first Reaping; how I could barely lift a spoon to my mouth without the contents splattering the table.

After a long time, Phillips finally breaks our silence by thumping down his coffee mug and saying, "I bet you're wondering why I didn't volunteer."

I stop with my fork halfway to my mouth. The amusement seeps out of Romanoff's eyes. Even Lorraine knows to keep quiet now.

"No, sir," I tell him, "I wasn't."

Phillips exhales through his nose and glances towards the door, as if expecting something to charge in. He's older than either Romanoff or myself—he was the sole Victor of District 12 for over a decade after the previous one died. He's watched a lot of children go to their deaths and held himself responsible. His mousy hair is streaked with a grey that tells of years of bitterness, loneliness and defeat. He was never particularly respectful to me, especially when we were first thrown together—after all, the odds weren't exactly in my favour—but he knows as well as I do that I would never let him go back.

"It's not cos I'm old, kid," he snaps. I drop my spoon. "If I needed to, I cart off into that arena and take out as many as I could. You _know _I would. You just wouldn't let me. No, the reason why is because I think that, out of every tribute I've mentored over the years, you've had the most fire. You're the first one in a long time that I've _needed _to come out alive."

I frown and flick my gaze uncertainly over to Natasha. She's returned her attention to her dessert, unbothered by what Phillips is saying.

"You may not know it, Rogers," Phillips adds, "But you've got as good a chance at winning as every other tribute in that arena. Better than some, even."

"Maybe," I interrupt. My voice is level even as my thoughts hurl themselves frantically around my head. _No I don't. I won't win. I don't want to win. I'm going to die._

Phillips says nothing. That sadness is packed back into his dark eyes. I force myself to look away and shove the last spoonful of sticky-sweet-whatever into my mouth, swallowing without tasting.

"I think I'll go to bed now," I declare and stand up, "It's a big day tomorrow, after all."

Lorraine perks up at that, "Yes it most certainly is! Aren't you guys excited to get back to the Capitol?"

Romanoff looks like she may answer, but I don't wait to hear it.

* * *

I dream of the fall again that night and jerk awake with a name etched on my lips. I swallow it down again and wait for my heart to stop pounding, for the mountain and snow and whistle of air to fall into the shadow of the back of my mind. It's the middle of the night but I know I won't get back to sleep.

The room, impressively large in daylight, seems grim and tiny in the blackness. I sit up and grope about on the bedside table for a light switch. I have hours to pass before we arrive in the Capitol and nothing to fill them with.

It occurs to me that I have no idea of what to expect once I get there. Have there been any changes in the line-up—new interviewers, new announcers, new stylists? No notices are ever made about those sorts of changes, probably since each new Capitol interviewer or announcer or stylist, in my experience, has been more or less a duplicate of his predecessor in all but name. What about my fellow tributes? I've met a lot of the other Victors over the past six years, even befriended some. What if I have to go against people I care about?

I reach for the table again, this time reaching for the rectangular remote control. There will be a television folded up somewhere in the walls, I'm sure. I still have not got the hang of Capitol technology (and I think I never will) but I know that the large yellow button in the top right corner will activate the television. I also know that the Games coverage—at this point, the Quarter Quell announcement and the Reapings—will be on constant repeat.

When the television does unfurl and switch on, it's showing the District 12 Reaping. I shudder involuntarily. Maybe I should simply turn it off until the coverage repeats—I don't need to hear my own name be called out.

Despite myself, I continue to watch as first Romanoff, clad in black and stony-faced, ascends to the stage. The announcers ooh and aah at her, reminding the audience of her ferociousness and charisma—"A _true _Victor and still so dignified!"—and then I see the moment of panic in my eyes as Steve Rogers is pulled on stage.

"Look at him!" one announcer gasps, "Steve Rogers! Doesn't he look different, Dionysus? So strong, so handsome! I say that this time around, he'll be a favourite to win!"

"Mmm, yes," the other concurs, "Of course, we all recall that Steve Rogers won the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, a notoriously difficult year for _all _tributes—"

"—and without killing a single tribute himself!" the first points out. The shot now switches to a bright orange studio, revealing the two reporters—with their clothes and hair multi-coloured, their skin bronzed and shiny with a plastic-like quality, they look grotesque—

"Weren't we _all _sure," the first, whose hair is bouffant and rainbow-striped, "that he wouldn't last a single day in that arena? Instead he proved himself to be the most _determined_—even managing to overcome his terrible frailty after the Games!"

"Surely, it's no secret," the second says conspiratorially, "that Steve Roger would almost certainly have died—even before his Victory Tour—were it not for _intervention_?"

"Intervention?" repeats the first, with a quizzical expression. His partner nods vigorously.

"Of course, being a Victor, as well as bringing honour and glory to your district, opens doors to only the _best _Capitol developments in technology and medicine," he grins and that's when I shut the television off.

I sit for a long time, staring at the blank screen, an odd mixture of anger and horror pooling in my belly. My hands grip the remote control almost to the point of breaking it before I throw it across the room and trip hastily towards the bathroom.

I glare at myself in the mirror—at my strong jaw, at my ruddy skin, my broad shoulders, my abs, my arms—and think of the boy who entered the arena of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games. He had been pale and slight, couldn't kill anybody, _hadn't _killed anybody, only survived because other people died in his stead. The Capitol fixed that boy up—made him look like a Victor even though he wasn't one.

Of course they knew. Of _course _it would be mentioned. I was a fool to think otherwise. I hadn't even thought about the axe hanging over my head—assumed it wasn't there, pretended I was living free for six years.

I owe a debt to the Capitol and I am paying for it with my life.


	3. The Capitol

**A/N: Not all the characters necessarily get introduced in this chapter but, I promise, all will be revealed. Thanks, everyone, for the favourites and follows :)**

* * *

Chapter Two

I stay awake for the rest of the night, too afraid to return to sleep and too anxious to turn on the television. Instead, I watch the sky outside lighten from pitch-black to bruise-purple to blinding blue. The landscape distorts into strips of greens and browns. Before long, distantly, the silver gleam of the approaching Capitol outshines even the sun.

* * *

When I first took this train ride, I was sixteen years old and I was not afraid. Not even a little bit.

I was a scrawny, short, sick thing but I was so determined. Having my name be called was a horrific moment for most of my District. For nearly everyone, seeing the pair of us onstage—a wisp of a young man next to a chubby, half-hysterical twelve-year-old—was as good as a death toll, an ugly bell ringing in their minds warning them of yet another loss, another year of starving. If anything, their doubt only fuelled my fire. I was going to win the Hunger Games, I decided then and there.

I didn't have anyone to see me off that year either. Both of my parents are dead. Dad was killed in the coal mines when I was barely walking. Mom worked herself to the bone trying to give me a good childhood, trying to ensure that I would never need my name in the Reaping more times than necessary. She didn't really die, simply wasted anyway until one morning, when I was thirteen, I woke up and she wasn't there anymore.

I had no other family and not many friends. I had no-one to support me, to say goodbye to, to make proud.

That meant nothing. I wanted to make my District proud. I wanted my winnings to feed those people. I just wanted to make a difference because, for so long, it seemed like I would fade away like my mother before me.

So the trip to the Capitol wasn't spent sweating and crying. I steeled myself, watching the window eagerly for my first glimpse of the city. And _oh_, what a glimpse.

It's difficult to explain the Capitol to the people in the Districts—the white skyscrapers, the shine of silver and glass, the beauty of the River Roma and of the distant mountains. The people, too, may seem alien to those who have never seen them. After all, for such poor and hardworking folks to envision the colours, the bizarre fashion, the tinkling of laughter and champagne glasses, the debauchery, the relaxation—it's impossible. It was, for me, that first time, almost unbelievable.

Listening to my escort happily extol the Capitol, I asked myself, _What do they do all day?_

_How do they do so little and have so much?_

* * *

The train slips silently into the Capitol station; I may not have even noticed our arrival if it weren't for the cheering crowds gathered outside.

As we prepare to disembark, I'm powerless to resist peeping out of the window to see what awaits us. The citizens look as ridiculous as ever (the current trend, I deduce, is hair sculpted into animal shapes) but the glee on their faces is genuine. They're excited to see us.

When I first came here, that joy was as appreciated as it was inexplicable. Now it makes me feel faintly ill.

A hand curls around my elbow and my head shoots up to find Romanoff, her brows drawn down.

"Don't look," she orders me, "It'll be easier if you don't look."

Off the train, we're almost immediately swept away for preparation. I only briefly catch sight of the Training Centre, a glittering tower, just a little higher than its surrounding buildings. I look away with an almost desperate edge clawing at my mind and accidently catch Romanoff's eye.

She doesn't look stoic or stony now. There's a glimmer of a shared sensation in the tight pull of her mouth. Next to her, Phillips shifts uncomfortably.

We're all terrified, I realize. The thought shouldn't comfort me so much, but it does.

* * *

"Steven Rogers, I thought I told you to take care of these cuticles!"

"I haven't—" I begin, but cut myself off when Severine raps me firmly over the head with a nail file. I have to admit, I didn't think having the prep team who worked with me the first time around would make me feel any better. After all, I had scorned how much they enjoyed the Games and found them superficial and strange.

Don't get me wrong. They are. They're still obsessed with appearances and parties and the latest "fads" and they still find the bloodshed of the Hunger Games thrilling. But they've grown on me. I like to think that they really care about me—especially Vitus, whose rose-coloured hair is currently shaped as what I believe is a cat and who has not stopped crying since he clapped eyes on me.

I quickly glean that the people of the Capitol are not as happy to see their former Victors return to the arena as I assumed. Aelia informs me, as she plucks at my eyebrows, that it will be "so weird to see all you lovelies—stop wincing, Steve—have to go back. I mean, the idea that we have to watch any of you…oh, I can't even talk about it!"

When I'm finally declared acceptable to be seen by the head stylist, Severine has to push her weepy teammates out of my cubicle. I'm left alone, not even daring to invite my thoughts, for a matter of time before my stylist arrives. He's the only person who doesn't barge straight in with a plastered-on smile or any melodrama; his knock comes like a question and he pokes his head in almost apologetically.

"Bad time?" he asks wryly and my face splits into a grin.

"Boy, I'm glad to see you!" I cry and hold out my hand to Phil, who shakes it with an equal amount of enthusiasm. I generally cannot bear the company of the Capitol citizens but Phil Coulson is, perhaps, the one exception. He helped me to make an impression first six years ago and did not treat me like a hero or celebrity or piece of meat; he saw me as a sixteen-year-old boy. He saw potential where no-one else did.

"I'm really sorry," he says once we've greeted one another and I've made a crack about his bald spot, "that this has happened to you again."

I hesitate for the barest moment. I'm afraid and I'm resigned to death, that much is true—but Phil is the only person who has always believed in me. I don't want him to see me break. I _can't_.

"Just don't cry," I tell him with a mock scowl, "I can't take any more crying."

Phil grins, "Let me guess…Aelia? Vitus?"

"Both!"

"Oh," Phil chuckles as he shakes his head, "Those kids just love you."

_Love me_, I think, _Yeah, right_.

"I'll talk to them, okay? In the meantime, I'll try to rein in my overwhelming emotions," Phil laughs, "and get you ready for tonight. _Oh—!_"

With the air of a man who's forgotten something important, he digs through the pockets of his suit jacket. I raise an eyebrow as he produces what looks like a playing card and waves it between two fingers.

"Can I get an autograph? Have you seen these—limited edition, special for this year's Games. Aren't they _ridiculous_?"

It is a card; a card with my awkward, shuffling likeness on it. Baffled, I pull it out of Phil's grasp and stare at it.

_STEVE ROGERS, winner of the 69__th__ Hunger Games! A resident of the coal mining district, Steve Rogers won the Games with a combination of determination, resourcefulness and a lot of luck!_

"Trading cards," I say flatly. I don't know whether to feel morbidly amused or sick. I wonder if the people here even see us as real, not just characters forced to play for their entertainment. We breathe, we cry, we laugh, we die…

"Thought it would get a laugh," Phil says with that note of apology back in his voice, "I got my hands on the whole deck—they've made them of all the tributes this year, banking on your pre-existing fame, I guess—except you. I traded the rest of my deck for yours."

"Why?"

"You're worth ten of the others," he quips but it doesn't sound like a joke. He looks older than I think I've ever seen him; old and unbearably sad. It's at that moment that I realize, not with a jolt but calmly, that Phil Coulson is the only real friend I have—that he still believes in me.

"Here," I say and grapple on the tray next to us for something resembling a pen. Under my picture, I scrawl my own name and present it back to him. I say, "To sell for millions." I don't say, "To remember me by."

Phil pockets the card with a grateful look, "Okay, now down to business. By the way, you know you just signed an autograph with eyeliner?"

* * *

The Chariot Parade is the first opportunity for the tributes to tempt sponsors and show themselves off. In keeping with tradition, every pair of tributes and their chariot will be decorated according to the specialty of their district and driven into the Training Centre, cheered on by the Capitol, before hearing the President's address. It's easily the most humiliating of all the upcoming trials.

In my first Games, Danica and I wore coalminers' uniforms. I remember that the clothes hung off of me—the sleeves were longer than my fingers and the bottoms of the trousers were constantly stepped on—and the helmet kept slipping over my eyes. I remember that Danica found it terribly funny; she giggled every time that it happened. Even Phil struggled to maintain his composure.

Now I'm the one struggling. Phil notices my shifting and nudges my arm disapprovingly.

"Try not to look so miserable out there," he demands, "Look at Natasha—she's managing fine."

I don't look at Natasha. I can't look at Natasha without turning three shades of red. The elevator that we are rapidly descending in seems smaller than ever before.

The theme this year, for the District 12 tributes, appears to be coal dust. I find myself clad in a pair of black underpants, a considerably thick layer of dirt and nothing else except my own embarrassment.

Romanoff is indeed faring much better. She stands on the other side of Phil, with her stylist Maria Hill, the picture of serenity, unbothered by the fact that neither Phil nor I can look her in the eye.

"Look at it this way, Rogers," she said to me when we first regrouped, "You get to show off the new look to the audience, you make more sponsors out of horny spinsters. Think of it as _liberating_."

The doors finally slide open and I spill out with a relieved puff of air. It isn't until too late that I detect that the chariot room is abuzz with horses, tributes and stylists alike.

Tony Stark notices first. Obviously, he would.

He's loitering near the elevator with a cigar dangling from one gloved hand, looking for all the world like he has no care in the world, when I fall into the room. His dark eyes light up at the same time that my heart sinks before he slinks over with a leer.

"_Well_—"

"Please, don't," I beg and the elastic band of his smirk stretches wider.

"What makes you think I was gonna say anything?" he asks, drawing the cigar up to his mouth. I take the opportunity to snap a glance of his outfit. He's wearing a skin-tight body suit, clunky boots and gloves of the same shimmering red material. His hair is perfectly ruffled and his ever-so-famous beard perfectly trimmed. I raise my eyebrows.

"What are _you _supposed to be?" I shoot back. Stark takes one look down at himself and the elastic smile breaks.

"I'm _copper wire_," he snarls, "and my stylist is a _fucking idiot_."

I can't resist snickering, even in my own poor situation. There are two reasons why Tony Stark is one of the most popular Victors. One is his lifestyle: the man has more or less adopted the world of the Capitol as his own. He has a razor-sharp wit, a hefty case narcissism and a notorious reputation with the ladies. He is also (and this is the second reason) a total screaming genius. He is the embodiment of District 3, his home, which is the main and best site for engineering advancements, invention and electronic production. When he isn't enjoying himself, he's making some of the biggest contributions in these fields ever recorded in Panem history.

I suppose that I understand why he's a little upset about his outfit. To come from such an essential district and be reduced to copper wire must be such an insult.

Then again, I'm coal, so my sympathy is running somewhat dry.

"Come and meet the rest of the circus freaks," Stark offers, before gesturing to my torso, "I'm sure they're all gagging to meet _that_."

* * *

It isn't long before I begin to regret never watching the footage from the Reapings.

Natasha quickly detaches from our chariot to seek out the man from District 10—he isn't one that I'm very good friends with but I think that his name is Barton. On my own, I lean against the chariot, absently patting the mare harnessed to it and peering around at the other tributes.

I don't recognize quite a few of them: the District 11 tributes, one of whom has the frail quality of a morphling addict; the tributes from 6, 7 and 9; Tony's dark-skinned partner Allegra, who nods kindly to me; and the District 8 tributes, neither of whom can be older than fifteen. The boy, lanky and wide-eyed, waves shyly to me and then ducks his head.

I suddenly feel terrible for not having got to know my fellow Victors more. Painfully, I'm aware of how complicated it would make participation in the Quell—but as I watch the people around me, regardless of original district, mingle quite happily, I'm struck with how isolated I feel.

If Thor Odinson notices my melancholy, he doesn't let it stop him from bounding over and booming, "Steve! It is good to see you again, my friend!"

Thor is from District 1, the manufacturers of luxury items, and appears in a glistening white outfit that makes him look positively angelic. Under normal circumstances, he would be one of the Victors I would consider a friend. However, Thor is now a competitor against me and he is a Career tribute.

Careers are renowned for their strength and their fervor for battle. Many of them train since childhood for the opportunity to volunteer into the Hunger Games and they win nearly every year. Thor was no different. If anything, he was even more ready—his father had also been a tribute in the Games, had also won.

I try to imagine how proud District 1 must be of Thor right now—and how good my odds against him are.

Thor's smile wavers when I don't reply, "Is everything alright, Rogers?"

"Fine," I say sharply and, despite myself, cringe when Thor recoils, "I'm sorry. I'm a little…tense, and—"

"I understand," Thor interrupts, with a pointed glance downwards, "You are not comfortable. Come! You will find some with similar sentiments nearer the top."

Without preamble or stung feelings, he takes my wrist and guides me to a larger group of tributes near the start of the chain of chariots. It almost isn't fair, I decide, that Thor can be so dangerous and yet so well-meaning. It's a contradiction.

"Sif!" Thor yells out to the female tribute perched in his own chariot, "Have you met Rogers?"

The woman, Sif, arches a brow before jumping down from the chariot. She is decked out in sparkling white as well, a dress to match Thor's shirt and trousers. Her sleek black hair is pulled back into a ponytail which swings as she all but stumbles towards us.

"You look like you wish to sink into the earth," she comments to me, "and die rather than proceed out there dressed so."

I clear my throat, "I could say much the same, ma'am."

Sif narrows her eyes, "Don't _ma'am _me. I may have been forced into _this_," she tugs angrily at her skirt, "but don't doubt that I am no _ma'am_. Thor, shouldn't we be getting ready now?"

She curtly turns her back to us and lurches back to the chariot. I glance uncertainly at Thor, who looks exasperated. When he senses my gaze, he's quick to flash a grin.

"Sif is simply tense," he assures me, "I believe. I suppose I shall see you on the other side?"

I press my lips together tightly and nod. Contented, he scrambles back into the chariot to stand with Sif, a pair of shimmering heroes, while I hover dust-drenched below them.

It's almost time. I can hear the early roars of the awaiting crowd beyond.

I glance back at the long line of chariots in the final stages of preparation. Twenty-four people, some old and some young, stand in ridiculous costumes on grand chariots pulled by powerful horses. They're getting ready to be shown off to the baying hordes of the Capitol for the second time in their lives.

In a month, maybe two, nearly all of us will be dead.

"Mr. Rogers!" an employee cries, rushing up to me and urgently pressing my shoulder.

"It's time, Mr. Rogers! You have to get to your place!"


	4. The President

Chapter Three

I have to blink frantically as the cool dark of the chariot chamber gives way to unforgiving brightness. The sky is star-strewn already but the tall lights stood behind the stands and the synthetic fire crackling on the sides of the chariot illuminate us. I cannot hide from the eyes of the onlookers and can barely see them as the chariot rumbles along.

I can hear them, however—they shriek, jeer, gibber at as we pass and it takes all of my willpower not to look up at them. I fix my eyes determinedly ahead, where the sleek silver of the Training Centre reflects orange. I want this to be over more than anything.

"Rogers," comes a whisper. Romanoff leans towards me and gently squeezes my wrist, "The screens, check out the screens."

My eyes flit up of their own accord to the huge screens erected on our route and find my own steely face. I can't help but feel startled as I take us in: Romanoff and I, Victors from the poorest district, stripped right down and stained black, as if we staggered into our chariots from the mud. It's an almost feral effect; we could be animals.

But the coldness of our expressions, our strict postures, and the gleaming black horse that pulls us along— these are not base at all. We may be bared for all to see, but we maintain dignity, even superiority, over our viewers. We may be from District 12 but, like phoenixes, we rise from the ashes strong and beautiful and unlike anything else on Earth. We are attractive. We are sophisticated.

We are dangerous.

In the final stretch of the parade, we both allow ourselves a smile. The crows of the audience arise into a collective scream, which I allow to breeze over me and be swept away into the night. For the first time, I feel an inkling of hope.

The chariot turns into formation at the very base of the Training Centre, aligning itself perfectly alongside the District 11 Tributes. The male one, the morphling, bends over the side, his bloodless lips lifting into a smile as he offers a hand toward our horse. Above us is the balcony from which the opening address will be made; I can hear the excited crowd shushing and quieting. For a few restless moments, nothing happens.

When President Thanos steps up to the microphone, he doesn't smile. He doesn't wave or greet his audience in any way. He spares not a glance for the twenty-four Tributes lined up for slaughter beneath him. When I first found myself here, his demeanour frightened me. Now, I've rather become used to it.

Which is a really scary thought.

"Today," the President begins and the words drop like stones on my shoulders, "we welcome our Tributes and the esteemed citizens of the Capitol to the opening of the third Quarter Quell; the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games.

"The Hunger Games may be a time, in many ways, for celebration. We now mark the seventy-fifth anniversary of the success of the Capitol. However, these Games also serve as a reminder and a tale of caution. In the Dark Days, in the name of a terrible struggle between the Capitol and the rebellious District Thirteen, good men, women and children lost their lives…_needlessly_," Thanos rasps with the tiniest quirk of the lips.

"However, as violently and ruthlessly as the rebels of the Districts fought, they had no real—_conviction _in their cause and were thus ultimately crushed. As a doctor would remove an infected limb, so the Capitol destroyed what was left of District Thirteen. And now, every year, twenty-four brave Tributes are gathered to represent their Districts and the final lingering message of that bleak time."

Here, his white hands curl ominously around the stem of his microphone, "And this year, twenty-four Victors are gathered to further hammer home this message, to the Districts, to the people, to our children: the fruit borne of war will taste bitter on the tongue and churn the stomach. The will of the Capitol, however," and his thin arms outstretch, as he makes his final proclamation, "promises prosperity. To turn against it is to deny oneself the tree of _life_."

The audience goes wild. Proud, Thanos now turns his pale eyes down to the row of chariots below.

"Brave Tributes—our Victors—the children of Panem will one day thank you for your sacrifices in the coming weeks," his mouth, plump and purple in the harsh light, is grinning now, "Remember this. And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

Above the whoops around us comes the order to bring the chariots into the Training Centre. I'm jerked as the horse trots eagerly behind District 11's chariot and can hardly gather my bearings again before the heavy metal door is clunking shut behind us and the outside world locked away.

Phil, Maria and Chester Phillips are all waiting for us, ready to express pleasure at our performances. Romanoff doesn't immediately vanish this time; instead she stands to my right and attempts to scrub the filth off of her breast with the heel of her hand. She comments on how stubborn the stuff is before smirking when she notices how red I've become.

"God, Rogers, you're such an innocent," she chuckles. I open my mouth to retort but my chance is robbed by another amused voice, "Can you blame the guy, Nat?"

The District 10 Tribute—Barton?—is behind us, looking fairly smug for a man with a cowbell around his neck. He looks to be around thirty years old, a head shorter than me with sandy hair and a handsome face. He's clearly on good terms with Romanoff, whose smile warms at the sight of him.

Uncertain, I stick out a hand, "Um, hi, I'm Steve—"

"Rogers, I know," he says, shaking my hand firmly, "Clint Barton. You've already got the rest of us talking."

"I do?"

"Mmm-hmm. Everyone's wondering about—"

A Capitol attendant abruptly bursts into our circle, clearly flustered, "Right—_all of you_—have to get to the elevators NOW, and no arguing, I've got enough of that from _him_—"

"I thought we were getting along," Stark, behind her, is grumbling before leaping back as the attendant aims a smack at him, "Fine, fine, but I get the elevator with Captain Hotpants and No-Pants."

It takes a guffaw from Phillips and a subtle push from Maria before I realize that I'm Captain Hotpants.

I wind up crammed at the back of the elevator with Stark, Romanoff, Clint Barton and the sullen-faced District 6 Tributes. Every pair of Tributes gets their own floor in the Training Centre in which to live during their time in the Capitol; this means that Romanoff and I have Floor 12, the penthouse. Stark spends much of the ride up to Floor 3 lamenting his stylist's choices (in much more colourful language) and admiring the effects that ours had ("Your chariot was _on fire_. By which I mean literally. By which I mean that you guys were hot."). Once he's gone, Romanoff and Barton take up a quiet conversation and I'm left in awkward silence with the District 6 Tributes.

The female is a tall, unwelcoming sort of woman with a pointed chin, a long sheet of black hair and eyes like trees in winter. Her white arms are folded over her chest and she acknowledges no-one, not even her partner, who looks so like her that I do a double take: the same pale skin, the same black hair, the same cruel twist of the mouth. His eyes, when I catch them, are green, however; a forest, like his partner's, but one in the thick of summer.

"Hello," I greet him. He doesn't reply. The only reaction that my speaking garners is from Romanoff and Barton, who stare at me.

Unnerved, I opt to try again, "My name's—"

A shrill bleeping swallows my words and the doors slide open on Floor 6. The District 6 Tributes, without so much as a glance, step out and the doors pull shut again.

"Don't bother," Romanoff tells me, "I get that you're nice and all, but Loki and Laufey aren't the friend-making type."

"Oh," is all I can think of saying. Feeling distinctly chastised, I lean back against the wall. After a moment of silence, I add, "They sure look alike. Does everyone in District Six look like that?"

It's an innocent question but, when Romanoff rolls her eyes and Barton laughs, I'm glad I didn't think to ask it in the presence of the Tributes.

"Don't generalize," Barton advises me, still smiling, "You'll get a punch off anyone from District Six if you suggest _they're _the norm there. Laufey is Loki's mother."

This stuns me into a horrified silence for long enough that we reach Floor 10 and Barton leaves us with a lazy wave. Nearer our floor, I finally splutter, "But—b-but _how_?"

"They both were Victors," Romanoff says easily and without looking at me, "and both got Reaped."

"_No-one else _Volunteered?"

Romanoff scoffs, "Who in their right mind—except the goat-brained Careers—would _want_ to do this twice?"

That night, curled up on slippery soft sheets, I dream of the Hunger Games and of my mother. She stands in a snow drift with frightened eyes and a spear clutched in cold gnarled hands. I run to her—am I attacking or rescuing?—I run to her with her name peeling the insides of my mouth but she blows away like a snowflake before I can reach her.

I wake up again as I have done every night for months now: the mountain looms out of my subconscious and I fall. When I jerk upright with a yelp, an Avox appears at the door within a minute.

Avoxes have never made me particularly comfortable—the idea of a person, tongue removed and forced into servitude, having to wait on you hand and foot would probably make anyone squirm. This one is unfamiliar, a pretty one, with brown curls and big eyes, and she hands me a glass of water without my having asked.

"How did—um," I hesitate. I'm not really supposed to speak to Avoxes but this one has an unusually understanding expression. "I had a nightmare."

The Avox nods twice and then presses gently at my wrist to guide the glass to my lips. She must have seen and felt things unlike anything I can imagine. I guess it's ridiculous to expect that an Avox wouldn't recognize a nightmare when they see one.

* * *

Training starts the next day. At breakfast, Phillips instructs us to scope out possible allies—"Everyone knows what everyone else can do; pick right and they'll give you an edge,"—and, in private, orders me not to do anything involving strength in front of the other Tributes.

"In your last Games, you were a weakling," he deadpans, "who couldn't even handle a weapon. Now you're…" he gestures at my chest, "more than that. You're _stronger_, but they don't know _how _strong. Save all the showing-off for your session with the Gamemakers."

"Then how do I find an ally?" I protest. Phillips arches an eyebrow at me.

"These people are smart, Rogers, and understand the Games as well as you. They won't just be looking for muscle."

That's how, on my first day of training, I find myself loitering around the plant-identification stand learning about berries rather than swinging hammers like Thor or twirling knives like the beefy District 2 girl, Niko. I'm surprised to find that I'm not alone; Bruce Banner, a soft-spoken older man, peers at the leaves of the nightlock plant alongside me.

"I'm not too worried about weapons and things like that," he admits when I probe, "Most tributes die because they can't reach food or water; this is the important stuff."

He's so shy and sweet that it takes me a long time to place him. Bruce Banner won the Hunger Games twenty years ago, when the arena was kept in perfect darkness for the entirety and the Tributes were observed through sickly night vision. Only three days in, Bruce seemed to go berserk and tore apart anything that he found in his path. When he was lifted out, he thought he'd been gone for years.

"I didn't recognize you without all the, you know, green," I tell him and he snickers.

We spend some time there before moving as one to the camouflage station, where the instructor and the woman from District 11 are showing the morphling and Bruce's dark-haired partner, Betty, how to paint oneself to blend in with tree bark. From the corner of my eyes, I watch Romanoff climbing the black netting on the side of the training room with a blade clenched between her teeth; Barton is examining the bow and arrows, which are metallic and lethal; Allegra, from District 3, runs her sword through a dummy's head while Tony ambles around the different stations; Sif and the District 2 boy, Kallikrates, look at the weapons rack together; the District 8 teenagers, whose names I've learnt are Peter and Gwen, remain inseparable; Laufey is nowhere to be seen but Loki is now at the plant-identification station, standing with—of all people—Thor, who appears to be having as much luck drawing him into conversation as I did.

I heave a sigh and turn back to Bruce, who has his head craned up.

"Look," he says, "The overlords are watching."

The overlords are the Gamemakers, who will rate each Tribute on their skillset and then control what happens in the arena. Only two of the smartly dressed Capitol men have their gazes on us; the rest are bickering over a banquet table, laden with enough meat and bread to keep District 12 alive for months.

Heimdall is the Head Gamemaker and observes the room before him with a carefully blank expression. He has been Head Gamemaker for as long as I can remember and it is said that his golden eyes can see everything; that he has had some secret procedure that keeps him from ageing and he will always see what is happening. He is a stoic but fair man and probably the ideal man to have controlling the deaths of twenty-three people.

The other, Johann Schmidt, an especially grave and intimidating man, has his eyes fastened on me. When he finds me looking, his eyes flash with something dark and primal, something like that which haunts the eyes of every person in District 12: hunger. With that sight fixed on me, I suddenly feel like the stuffed pig Schmidt's colleagues argue over; and Johann Schmidt would like nothing more than to devour me.


	5. The Twelve

Chapter Four

On the morning of the sessions with the Gamemakers, the curly-haired Avox wakes me from a thankfully blank sleep with a prod to the shoulder. It's the kind of thing any other Victor or Capitol citizen would have her punished for; I think she knows that I don't intend to say a thing, because there's a defiant sparkle to her eyes that betrays the careful lack of expression on her face.

"Thank you," I mumble hoarsely. No sooner have I moved than she's straightening up and is gone from my bedroom silently and swiftly. As I dress, even though I'm aware of the dangers, I cannot help but wonder what her name is—and what she did to deserve this punishment.

I'm deliberately not thinking about the private sessions today. This is the time when the Gamemakers will assess the Victors' performances so far and award them an amount of points depending on how good they are—who's the likeliest to win. And I've no idea what to do.

Six years ago, I was awarded a score of four, which I think was unusually generously, and was roundly considered a lost cause. Back then, of course, losing was not an option to me; now, when I'm in the best position I've ever been in to win, I've no desire to prove myself. I've nothing left to give to the Capitol. I have watched too many people die, lost too much of myself, and my life in exchange for that of another Victor is the only conclusion I'm willing to reach.

Phillips disagrees.

"You gotta do something big for the Gamemakers," he instructs me at breakfast, while Lorraine fusses over my untidy hair. Romanoff is nowhere to be found. "A lot of 'em still see you as this sweet little kid from the back of beyond. You're not a real opponent. Not a _threat_. You gotta show them that you have a snowball's chance."

"But everyone loves Steve!" Lorraine protests, "Just as he is!" Then she smiles at me in a way that I think ought to be reassuring, "Don't throw away what's already made you so _popular_—"

"He can go on with the nice-guy-cissy act if he wants to," Phillips sniffs, "but how's he gonna get sponsors if everyone thinks he can just _charm _everyone into dying? Just prove that you have a scrap of backbone, okay? Now talk to me about allies."

I chew on a mouthful of toast thoughtfully, quietly grateful for the change of subject, "I want Banner."

"Banner? Good choice, the guy was fuckin' insane in his game—"

"Also the District Eight kids. Peter and Gwen."

Phillips' eyebrows seem to leap right off his forehead, "_Them_?"

I nod. Peter and Gwen won two years ago and last year respectively. They were a little like me, in that they didn't use brute strength or have a hidden skill, but rather bided their time and tried to kill as few as possible. Peter was saved because he was clever and the Careers decided that he would be of use. Two weeks later, when nearly all the other Tributes were dead, the cave that was the Careers' case collapsed, killing nearly all—except Peter, who managed to scramble out. Gwen, meanwhile, was one of the only Tributes who could tell the differences between poisonous and non-poisonous berries and fruit in her jungle-style arena. I like both very much and I tell Phillips as much.

Phillips, predictably, is less than enthused. So is Lorraine.

"Don't you know, Steve," she presses urgently, "that some of the Tributes from the bigger Districts have been requesting you? Gilmore Hodge? _Thor and Sif_? Don't you think that maybe—?"

"I've said who I want," I interrupt stiffly. Lorraine looks put out but concedes, miserably poking at her eggs. Phillips cocks his head at me.

"Do you _want _them," he asks slowly, "or want to _protect_ them?"

I freeze. Lorraine looks up, baffled and alarmed. Phillips doesn't bely any emotion, simply regards me curiously. I'm suddenly terribly, frightfully aware that I haven't been as inconspicuous with my intentions as I thought.

"If they even get a whiff of what you're planning, you're screwed," Phillips says finally and I'm spared the necessity of responding by Romanoff striding in airily.

"What about you?" Phillips speaks as if the words are a heavy weight, "Barton, I expect?"

Romanoff doesn't reply, opting instead to spoon yoghurt into a bowl copiously. I wonder if either of us have been as careful with our feelings as we should have been.

* * *

As the male Tribute of District 12, my session is the very last. I flit about the room awkwardly as Tribute after Tribute file out: Thor and Sif are remarkably withdrawn as they leave; the District 2 Tributes, the older but stern-faced Kallikrates and the beautiful, bloodthirsty Niko, leave in a typically excited fashion; the elderly District 7 man has to be guided towards the door by a Tribute from District 11, a middle-aged woman with gentle hands. I'm left in the waiting room for what feels like ages as Romanoff has her session.

I recall what Phillips told me. _Just prove that you have a scrap of backbone_. _Show them that you have a snowball's chance_. In these Games, appearance was as essential as survival. I need to make an impression if I want to help my allies.

Without thinking, I wrap a hand around my bicep and flex experimentally. For the past five years, I've had a strict work-out routine. I needed one, I was told, in order to keep the Capitol's gift in working order. After all, why should they have made me over if I was just going to let myself waste away like their time and efforts?

I didn't mind terribly. Having an everyday system can keep you sane; knowing what you need to do can take your mind away from darker thoughts.

So I'm strong. I can run fairly fast too, but I'm better known in my District for throwing two bags of flour over my head than for running up and down the place. I'm strong and I can defend myself if I need to. Would that be enough of a statement? Would it earn me a good score?

The door swings open with a woosh and my name is called. "_Steven Rogers_," says a voice tinged with a Capitol accent. _Steve-ahn Radg-ers_, I think as I stand.

Inside the training room, the walls shine like the equipment, silver and cold. On a little balcony to my left, several feet above my head, shines reddish light. Laughter and chatter melts from the slippery walls and sinks into my heart, dragging it down. I remember that it is there that the Gamemakers sit, undoubtedly with a glorious meal and an unconcerned eye on the Tributes below.

"Steve Rogers," I announce and the chatter is muffled somewhat, "District Twelve?"

"Yes, yes, Steve," comes a voice, thick with drink and amusement, "go ahead and begin."

I force myself to swallow and turn to the array of weapons before me. I ignore the spears, the swords, the bow and arrows, the polished shield propped up on a metal stand, and reach instead for the medicine balls. They aren't particularly difficult to pick up; I know that if I can just throw one or two of these, I can make my point. That's all I want to do and nothing else can be expected.

Moving to a clearer space, I grasp the handle on the weight with both hands and take a deep breath, then look down the length of the hall. I shift the medicine ball into my right hand, square my shoulders, rock back onto my ankles and begin to twist.

Arms outstretched, I swing once, twice. It's on the third spin that it goes wrong. My fingers, of their own accord, slacken just the slightest bit. The ball flies from my grip and soars, with a not-inconsiderable speed, the wrong way, not down the hall but across it. It takes me half a second to realize that it will hit the wall—rebound—into me.

It's automatic. As the ball smashes against the wall and roars towards me, I don't attempt to run or duck. I don't attempt much except seizing the propped-up shield and throwing it in front of me, squeezing my eyes tight shut.

The weight smacks against the shield with enough force to send me staggering back a step or two, unharmed. Then there's a splash and a series of startled shouts. When I dare to peer from behind the shield, I realize that the ball has flown over the Gamemakers' balcony…and landed in the punch bowl, dousing them with sticky pink juice but not injuring anyone.

There is a stunned silence, broken only by the shield sliding from my panic-stuck fingers and clanging to the floor. Then I turn and depart from the room as calmly as I can manage, all the while clenching my tongue between my teeth in punishment.

* * *

I don't tell anyone what a disaster my session was. Romanoff seems to be implementing a policy of paying no heed to anyone around her; Phillips waves me off, grumbling that he'll see on the TV when the time comes; and I wouldn't dream of trying to confide in Lorraine. Part of me yearns to spill my secret to the Avox, whose eyes are understanding in place of words, but I don't want her to get in any trouble. Instead I hold my fear within me like one would clasp a spider between two hands; it seems to crawl and quiver against my insides but I knew it was trapped.

If it weren't for the fact that I had chosen allies, I wouldn't mind so much. When I only had myself to think of—and I never intended for myself to survive long anyway—a poor training score would not have matter. But how are Bruce, Peter and Gwen supposed to be safe with me if I only receive a three or a four? They would be seen as easy pickings by the others, even those who I know to be good, like Thor.

To say that I am furious with myself—with these whole Games—is an understatement.

"Steeeve!" Lorraine trills, barging into my room after apparently growing bored of my sulking in my room, "Steve, sweetie, the announcements are about to start!"

I groan, "I can't sit this one out?"

"Stevie—"

"I just want to be alone, Lorraine."

Any other person would at least comprehend that something was wrong. Lorraine, however, is not any other person. Her mouth quirks as I let my shoulders slump and, as I begin to lower my head to hang, she darts her hand out and lifts my chin with one cool, smooth finger.

"I know what you need," she purrs. I barely repress a shiver. "You need a little encouragement."

"I—I, I don't—"

She cuts me off easily and without concern by kissing me. Her lips against mine are slick and waxy with lipstick; when she pries my mouth open and deepens the kiss, she tastes just as strange, bland and faintly unpleasant. Her hands creep around to cup my face and her painted nails cut into the skin below my ears.

"Lor—" I try to mumble against her lips; I don't want to upset her but this isn't _encouraging _me much. If anything, my situation—the Games, the Capitol, my entire world—seem all the more surreal for it. "Lorraine, um—"

There's a quiet knock as the door behind Lorraine is pushed open and taps against the wall. We break apart, breathing a little heavily, to see my Avox stood in the hall. Her expression is aloof but her eyes seem unusually guarded. My stomach churns a little.

"You weren't summoned," Lorraine spits, disgruntled. The Avox simply steps back and gestures down the hall, just as dispassionately, indicating that we should be heading back to the main area. I understand immediately.

"Time for the scores! Right!" I yelp and disentangle myself from Lorraine. She smiles smugly at me as I rush after the Avox.

"See?" she says, "Just a little encouragement!"

Romanoff and Phillips are already waiting with Maria and Phil by the television, which is blasting footage from the chariot parade. Phil guffaws a little when he sees me and Maria and Romanoff both look intently at the screen, but I don't understand why until I sit down and Phillips asks, "I get that you wanna make an impression but since when do you wear red lipstick?"

Oh.

Lorraine giggles behind her hand and my stomach flip-flops again miserably. Fixing my own gaze on the television screen, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand just as the host appears, holding in his hands the Tributes' training scores.

Nearly everyone does extremely well. The Tributes of Districts 1 and 2, predictably, all score nine or above; my allies all do fairly well, Bruce exceeding the other two with a respectable eight; Romanoff visibly relaxes when Barton, of 10, receives a eleven; and the lowest scores go to District 7's old man and the morphling of District 11. When the symbol of District 12 flashes up, a chill drapes across me.

"Firstly, Steve Rogers, of District Twelve," the announcer pauses for dramatic effect, as an image of my head and shoulders revolves just to his right, "with a score of," another pause; my image stills with my face towards the camera, serious and determined, "…_ten_."

"Oh my God," I say and drop my head between my knees. Phillips is cackling at my reaction next to me, while Phil pats my back and congratulates me. A ten—that's double what I received when I first competed, and more than enough to serve my purpose. I'm quietly and desperately relieved.

_And I owe it all to my own bad grip_, I think to myself, _and that damned shield!_

There's one person left to go. Nobody appears to be listening much until the announcer awards Natasha Romanoff the only score of twelve given in the history of the Hungers Games.

"I know a few things," she declares vaguely when five pairs of wide eyes turn to her, "and I know what to do with them."


	6. The Interviews

**I'm sorry that this was such a while coming! I've been dead busy recently (just moved countries and started university, eeep!) but this has been on my mind in the last few days and I hope that once I'm a bit better settled, updates will be more regular. **_**The Avengers **_**and **_**The Hunger Games **_**are not mine. Hope you guys enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Five

The next time I am presented to the Capitol, I am at least wearing clothes.

Phil twirls his finger at me, an indication that I should spin on the balls of my feet yet again to show him the entirety of my outfit. At my look, he says, "Come on, you've _got _to look perfect."

It's surprisingly conservative this time around: a finely tailored black suit jacket and trousers; shining laced-up shoes that feel cold and slippery to walk in; a silky black dress shirt, the top button of which digs into my Adam's apple; and a glinting tie of red, orange, yellow and every shade in between. When I peer into the mirror of my dressing room, I don't quite recognize myself. Before, I was a creature pulled from the dirt; now I'm like some sort of marble statue. "Mankind's ideal of perfection," Phil had mumbled and his eyes had sparkled.

The Interviews will be my very last chance to win admirers before I'm dropped into the arena. I must smile and charm my way into the hearts of the citizens—and the sponsors, of course—if I'm to stand a chance and my team makes sure I remember this. They're afraid, I think, that I will have alienated myself completely from the wide-eyed kid that the Capitol so loved.

_The people here are such fickle things_, I think as I spin, _They'll love anything if it shines._

"Okay," Phil says, which means that he's satisfied, "How are you going to play it?"

I totter to a stop, "Play it?"

Phil nods, "The interview. How are you going to act? The brave fighter? The wronged champion? Or the bashful, aw-shucks, I'll-do-my-best guy?"

"Um," is all I can think of to reply with. This is the one part of the process that Phillips has not instructed me on. "I-I think I'm just gonna wing it,"

"Aw-shucks it is," grins Phil and brushes imaginary lint from my shoulder, "Just remember: if you get nervous or don't know what to do, look for me. I'll be in the audience."

I breathe out through my nose, remembering how he had told me this the last time, when I stood level with his chin and shook in my stiff leather shoes. It was a comfort then and it is now. Phil squeezes my shoulder.

"No matter what," he tells me in a soft voice—his grip tightens—"you're still the Victor, Cap."

He lets go.

* * *

Even backstage, I can hear the crowd roar.

Romanoff stands on my right, clad in a dress of black waves cresting in rubies. She shimmers when she twists to glance at me and I force a smile. _I'm fine_, I want to say but the words stick in my throat as tonight's host takes to the stage.

Obadiah Stane has been the host of the Hunger Games for longer than I've been alive. Throughout the years, he has been practically unchanged: his bald head always shines under the bright stage lights, his grey beard never has a whisker out of place, his suits are always immaculate and his laughter always booms. Only those who have truly met him—those who have been interviewed, we Victors—have learnt to recognize the cruel edge to his jokes and the gleam of his eyes when the Games, in all their brutal and messy glory, are discussed. Stark in particular—who I watch fidgeting some way up the line from me, pulling at the sleeves of his navy jacket—dislikes Obadiah fervently.

Now that I think to pay attention, none of the Victors mulling around me seem especially enthused about their upcoming interview. Some seem simply indifferent (the District 2 Tributes seem to volley between this and intense joy in the face of the opportunity to spill blood) while others, like Bruce Banner, are openly and obviously nervous. I catch Bruce's eye, tuning out the noise of Obadiah's opening jokes and the audience's howls, and give as comforting a nod as I can manage.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our first guest to the stage—the feisty and ferocious young lady from District 1—_Sif_!"

Thor's District partner stomps onto the television screens. Even when obviously uncomfortable (her long silver skirts catch about her legs; she wobbles in her stilettoes), Sif is a vision and several crowd members wolf-whistle as she sits opposite Obadiah.

Right off the bat, it's clear that Sif's interview will not go in an expected direction. When Obadiah mentions her previous Games, Sif smiles and shrugs instead of boasting about her Victory, as I have seen her do before. Sif is the type not to revel in taking lives, but to be proud of what those taken lives say about her skills, her bravery, her fearlessness. Now, she speaks as little as possible while Obadiah questions her about how it felt to clutch her winning kill's brain matter in one hand.

The biggest surprise comes when Obadiah asks slyly, "I'll bet this Quell—the chance to go back out there—must be like a dream come true, eh?"

"No," says Sif and the room falls silent, "It is nothing like that."

"What is it like, then?"

Sif hesitates for a moment; her grey eyes flicker to her lap as she thinks; then she looks up at a camera and says, "The last time, it felt like an honour. It felt like proving myself. This time, I must fight and destroy my friends. There will be no honour in that."

When it is Thor's turn to take the stage, he shares the same sentiment. Obadiah asks him how Thor's father Odin, another previous winner, reacted to his son's second Reaping.

"He is sad, I think," Thor tells him quietly and he seems so un-Thor-like in that instant: solemn and grim, "Sad that I must face this challenge not once but twice in my life."

There are some distinct sniffles from the audience. Thor has no shortage of admirers in the Capitol and he has always been very gentlemanly and courteous about his conquests. Undoubtedly, some women watching him at this moment are imagining that he thinks of them, of leaving them behind, and weep copiously.

Thor and Sif are not alone in piquing the sympathies of our audience. Stark spends the majority of his three minutes ranting about how ethically and financially unsound the killings-off of Victors would be for the Capitol, not allowing Obadiah a word in edgeways. His partner Allegra jokes about how sick the people must be of her faces and then touches upon what a nightmare having to reenter the arena would be. Gwen, of District 8, begins to tear up in her interview, while the woman from District 11 sobs openly about her children back home: two toddlers and a baby born less than one month ago. Barton clenches his jaw, says that he will do "what he has to" and then clams up, answering only in monosyllables.

The interviews that get to me the most, however, are those of the District 6 Tributes and of Bruce.

By the time that Laufey is called onstage, Obadiah is already a bit peeved with us, I think; he wants something juicy, something to raise his profile and make good television for his viewers. So far, he's had most of the last ten former Victors bemoaning this Quell and has felt the turn of the audience's attitude; _why are we sending them back there? _He needs something to pull them back under his spell, to excite them, and Laufey gives it to them.

"I hoped to be Reaped," she announces to Obadiah's glee, "If I hadn't been, I would have Volunteered. I still believe that I have something to offer. I will never refuse an opportunity like this."

I quickly realize what she means: like the Tributes of District 2, Laufey enjoys the bloodshed.

"What did you feel when your son, Loki, was first Reaped?" Obadiah asks.

"Not much," comes the flippant reply, "I knew that I would be his mentor. I knew that Loki would know what he would have to do, how to survive. He isn't strong but he's clever, which he proved during his time in the Games."

"And the second time?" Obadiah presses, leaning forward in his eagerness, "When you knew that he would be going against you?"

Now Laufey is silent, stony-faced. She doesn't answer for some time, pausing almost until the end of her interview to say, "I thought only that I wanted to win, no matter the cost."

Bruce shuffles onto the stage to almost rapturous applause; out of all of the Victors, Bruce is the most talked-about, possibly one of the most famous, simply because of the act of horror that occurred at the end of his Games. He sits down with wide eyes and twitchy movements, not even daring to look at Obadiah, who's smiling like a lion bearing down upon a frail little lamb.

"Brucie!" he smirks and Bruce jerks towards him, "Let's have a little chat, shall we?"

Obadiah then proceeds to probe him mercilessly about his Games, asking everything that he had not been able to at Bruce's post-arena interview twenty years ago due to fear of triggering the traumatized boy. If he notices how Bruce pales, how he wrings and twists his fingers more desperately as time ticks by, he opts to pretend that he doesn't.

"What was going through your mind, Brucie? As you stumbled through the dark, pulling apart everything that you found—could you not tell the difference between a muttation and your District partner, Bruce?"

"I—"

"Did it not matter to you, at that point?"

Bruce looks like he might be sick. I feel like I might be as well. Romanoff has to shoot me a warning glare as I crumple my smooth trousers into my fists.

Romanoff gives a typically smooth, aloof performance, commenting simply on how "unfortunate" it is that she is competing in the Games again, and then it is my turn. I imagine that I'm blind and deaf as I first step out: all I can see is a flare of white and all I can hear is a dull, all-encompassing roar. Then I seep back into consciousness. I can again see the people shrieking, Obadiah in his colourful suit holding out a hand, my own face projected on the screens around me. I feel overwhelmed as I trip towards my seat. It's a familiar sensation and I suppose that this kind of attention is something that I'll never get used to.

"Well, well, Steve," grins Obadiah once he has me seated and the audience calmed down, "You've been making something of a name for yourself since we last spoke."

Someone in the audience cat-calls. There is a burst of laughter and Obadiah chuckles along with them. I glance around, as if trying to find the culprit, and realize that my host has started to speak yet again.

"Before we talk about the Quell, let's ask about you. What have you been up to?"

I can't quite wrap my head around what he's inquiring about. My tongue feels like a wad of cotton as I swallow and open my mouth.

"What I mean by that—" Obadiah suddenly charges on, "is…obviously, the end of the Games six years ago was very difficult for you."

He pauses here; I think I'm supposed to nod and do so dumbly.

"You were pulled out of the arena in very, very poor condition; so no post-Games interview and no Victory Tour. Until the next Games, you seemed to vanish off the face of the Earth!"

The crowd laughs again. I think of that year (_of scalpels and thick dark liquid, of foggy thoughts and heavy limbs, of snowy peaks, throats raw from screaming, my debt_) and try to summon up a smile anyway.

"And when you returned, you'd—to use a very, _very _old phrase—gone from nottie to hottie, hadn't you?" Obadiah adds to further cackles, "What changed, Steve?"

_You know_, I want to say, _You know what happened, you've been told to ask these questions, so that I'll admit it, so I can't deny it, so everyone will know what I owe._

"After…my Games," I begin slowly, "I was hypothermic and frostbitten and…if I'm honest, I probably would've died, were it not for the fact—"

"That you were the last alive," Obadiah interrupts with a sage expression, "So the Gamemakers lifted you out…and?"

I swallow, "And they saved me. And—" I cut myself off when I realize that I haven't the slightest clue how to continue. The gazes of the audience, of Obadiah, of every person watching at home or backstage or in the Districts seems in that moment to burn as surely as the lights around me. They beat into my flesh, tattoo onto my organs, stamp into my brain in a hunt for their own version of the truth.

The answer occurs to me like the beginning of a rainstorm: a gentle drizzle at first, then the heavens open and understanding, like raindrops, pelts me, sinks through my clothes and into my skin.

All I can do, I decide, is tell _my _version. That means that I have to start in the arena, aged sixteen, screaming a name that I have not dared even think in the years since.

It starts with Bucky.

"The reason I'm still here," I start and Obadiah raises his eyebrows. Apparently I've surprised him in my choice of direction.

"The reason I'm still here is because of…of…" I suck in a breath, "of James Barnes, my ally in the Games. He singled me out in training. He was my first real friend—to this day, I think he's my only friend and he's been d-d…_gone _for six years.

"We stuck together throughout the Games. He kept me safe and I watched his back as well as I could. He didn't care how small or weak I was 'cos he saw something else in me. I didn't know what it was back then. Now I think that it was some kind of inner strength, or maybe he just thought I was funny,"

The audience titters, which almost derails me. I had not thought that anything I intended to say would really elicit much reaction. Obadiah remains silent though, so I plough on.

"He was killed when one of the last Careers speared him through the heart. I was too far away to stop it, because Bucky had told me that he had seen a snow hare run by, that I had to try and catch it. We'd be starving for a few days…there was no hare. Bucky must have seen the Career and wanted to get me out of the way."

I remember that I had looked back and thought that the spurt of red on white was a patch of flowers that had popped out of the snow. I remember that I had thought of spring and of home before I heard the cannon. I do not say any of this.

"The avalanche hit four days later. I had spent that time looking for the Career. I honestly intended to kill him but the mountain—well, it got there first," I force a humourless chuckle, "I was all but frozen to death. I'm here only because Bucky and I had been together, with cover, while everyone else had been alone or out in the cold for the duration of the Games. That time that he bought me meant that my heart held out for a few minutes longer than the last Tribute. That's why I won the Games.

"After I was airlifted out, I was kept in a medical coma for three months and woke up…different. I had been healed—completely—not only of my injuries but all of the conditions I had when I was Reaped. I was stronger and healthier but I didn't want to be. In those last few days on the mountain, I wasn't thinking about winning, only about avenging Bucky. They thought that they were doing me a favour, I guess, but, by my way of thinking, they only added to my debt: I owe the Capitol my body and Bucky my life.

"I have changed since winning the Games. Before, I wanted to prove myself. I thought that the Games would be a perfect opportunity to do good, to bring food and pride to District Twelve. Now—now I-I'm absolutely petrified. But I can still do good. That's why I'm really here: to repay what I owe to Bucky.

"And I know that some will think that I ought to be grateful for what the doctors did to me and—and I am. But it's a gift that I didn't ask for and that I can't keep. It's Bucky who I really have to thank and I want to go the same way he did: helping someone else, someone who deserves it. I don't like bullies. I never have, no matter where they're from."

My throat has dried up by now so I snatch a glass of water from the table between us and gulp greedily. There's only a beat of silence before the buzzer sounds. My three minutes is up. With a nod and a forced smile, I leap up and try not to run offstage.

* * *

"That was stupid," Tony Stark tells me, "Very, very stupid."

My prep team hasn't found me yet. Backstage is buzzing. My ears are ringing as it hits me—as people stare at me and whisper about me—that I may have just signed my own death warrant.

"Why are you smiling then?" I demand.

"Your mentor's coming. He looks pretty mad," Stark points out instead of replying. He's gesturing to the other side of the room where, just past Thor, Sif and three of their mentors (they have a silly nickname but I remember that the pretty one is Fandral), Phillips stands with Lorraine. They both look red-hot with anger.

Before they notice me, however, Stark tugs me closer.

"I'm a smart guy," he whispers, "and I happen to _love _what you did."

"Even though it was stupid?"

Stark's grin widens, "_Especially _because it was stupid."


	7. The Token

**Thank you guys so much for the reviews! I haven't said that before, which is awful, but I do appreciate everything you have to say and will take it into account as much as I can. You are, genuinely, the wind beneath my wings. Thank you.**

**Now, on a more serious note, I have some warnings about this chapter: some violence, quite a bit of angst. Basically, the shit begins to hit the fan now. The ride is about to start. Let's buckle up!**

* * *

Chapter Six

I do not have a nightmare that night.

I do not sleep.

Through my window, I watch the lights move and flow in the streets below. The Capitol citizens celebrate and rejoice in the beginning of yet another Hunger Games, another cause to drink and eat and be merry. Pinks and yellows and whites glitter like jewels. To them, what will start tomorrow is simply another party—just some fun. I remember the splatter of Bucky's blood against the pristine snow, the first colour I had seen in weeks, and my stomach rolls.

Above, the night sky is greyish, as though the very heavens are turning away from the revelry below.

Chester Phillips had been very thorough in dressing me down.

"You've jeopardized everything, you _dumbass_!" he had roared, "What sponsor—what person—is gonna want to bet on a kid who's _looking _to die?"

(_"For the love of God, I could just—"_

"_What? Kill me? You won't have to worry about that, will you?"_

I regret saying that now. The anger had left him in a sigh and he had stormed from the room. I do not think that I will see him again.)

The lights burn, streaking orange across the backs of my eyelids, and I shift away. I turn my back to the window and sit on the sill, worrying my lower lip anxiously between my teeth.

Phillips was right, of course. No sponsors will want to protect me if I'm not looking to win—if their investments will prove fruitless. That, I think, was the point. I did not want anyone to have any delusions regarding my intentions. For six years, I've been portrayed as a victim, a role model, a Victor, a miracle—a hero.

I'm not any of those things. I'm Steve Rogers. I'm just a kid from District 12.

I want to be good. I want to be honest. I have been stripped of so much but I will not lose such important aspects of who I am. If it costs me minutes in the arena, then that is a price—the last price—I am willing to pay.

This doesn't stop my mind from racing though. I can't help imagining all of the ways in which I might die: _at the Cornucopia, the starting place, the very beginning? Later on, when I drop my guard and a Career finds me? Will I starve or drown or be poisoned? Will I be able to help Bruce and Gwen and Peter enough before?_

_Will it hurt? _

_Will I suffer?_

My morbid thoughts are stifled, suddenly, by my door swooshing open. Against the brightness of the hallway, my visitor is a silhouette.

"Hello?" I croak (why is my throat so dry?) and the person shuffles in, revealing a stiff white Avox uniform. I know immediately who it is.

The pretty Avox inclines her head to me and peers questioningly at my still-made bed. She wants to know, I infer, why I am not in bed on such an important night; if I have everything I need, if there's anything I want. Her jaw is clenched, as it has been at many other points when she has served me. I like to think that it is because she has yet to be beaten—she is a prisoner of the Capitol, yes, but there is still a lit coal in her that lights the flame of her eyes.

"I'm alright," I murmur and she nods again, preparing to turn and leave. It is a desperate impulse that makes me shoot out a hand. "Wait—wait! Will you sit with me, just for a bit?"

Those eyes—round and brown and strangely appealing—go wide and flicker momentarily to the corner of the room. I remember too late that my bedroom has a camera, that the staff keep a very close eye on their Tributes, that any fraternization or inappropriate conduct with an Avox will results in the punishment of that Avox.

"I'm so—"

The rush of the door is my only forgiveness.

* * *

At six o'clock the next morning, I shuffle into the dining room with a rock in the pit of my belly.

In four hours, I was to be transported into the arena and the Quell would commence.

Lorraine, in typical fashion, is excited and insists on having my plate piled high with food: sausages, bacon, mashed potato, an omelette, food that nobody in my District could even fathom. My Avox stands rigid in the corner, a jug of pineapple juice cradled in her hands. One of her eyes is swollen and purple, a new bruise. The meat that I have just speared abruptly disgusts me and I drop it, shoving my plate away.

"Oh Steve," Lorraine wheedles, "I know you must be nervous…"

"I'm not nervous," I snap when what I want to say is "What happened to her eye?"

Neither Phillips nor Romanoff appear at our table. I wonder if this is deliberate; Phillips, certainly, will want to avoid me and Romanoff may have decided that eating with an enemy was not the wisest course of action. I think both of them are right, even though I'm subjected alone to Lorraine's chattering and giggles for the better part of an hour. It'll be easier to face Romanoff in the arena if I don't have to think of what she had for breakfast on our last day.

As Lorraine turns away to reach for a pastry, the Avox steps forward—cautiously, like a bird towards bread—wielding the jug. I'm about to furrow my brows and tell her that no, I would not like any, when she leans down to tip pale yellow juice into my glass and uses her other hand to steady herself on the table.

When she lifts it, there's a scrap of paper next to my plate and a scrap of a smile on her face.

My heart skips a beat.

* * *

Phil is waiting for me in the prep room when I reluctantly enter.

From the training centre, it was a forty-minute ride in a Quinjet (a bulky, black plane-like vehicle designed specifically for the transport of Tributes to and from the arenas, no matter how dangerous the terrain), during which a tracker was injected into my arm. Even now, I think I can feel the metallic bug pulsing under my skin and know that the Gamemakers are measuring my heart rate, blood pressure, everything about me from the inside.

In the corner, a transparent chute waits innocuously. In ten minutes, the doorway currently left open will slide shut, with me inside, and the platform will raise me up into the arena. My throat constricts painfully and I make myself look back to Phil, who is busying himself with a navy coat made of a thick, smooth material.

"Put these on," he instructs me, passing to me the coat and a pair of heavy, dark lace-up boots, "Both are waterproof and retain heat. They should also be good for camouflage if necessary."

I nod and tug on the coat on. It's remarkably light on my back.

"I don't know what your game plan is," Phil says, watching me zip up my coat and reach for the boots, "except what I heard last night—and all I can say is…find your allies. Stay alive, at least for the first few days. Don't worry about the weapons in the Cornucopia. Just find your allies."

I nod again. My throat feels like it is throbbing. Above me, Phil inhales and asks in a tight voice, "Any tokens—special things you want with you in there?"

Hesitating, I nod for a third time, before pulling my token from the pocket of my combat trousers: a ripped slip of paper, in the middle of which is a name written shakily in pencil.

"Who's Peggy?" Phil asks. I smile against my chest as I knot my laces. I've always been impatient with tying bows.

"Someone I like," I tell him, as vaguely as possible, "Someone who gives me hope."

Phil blinks, a curious expression on his face, and then he chuckles, "As long as you have a _little _hope then."

"_T-minus three minutes_."

The tinny female voice shatters the glass around us. With a strangled sound, Phil throws his arms around me and I hug him back with no less fervor.

"You're a good man," he mutters against my shoulder, "A good man with a good heart and you deserved better."

"Phil—"

"I still have your trading card. It has pride of place on my mantelpiece," Phil's rushing, unloading so much in so short a space of time. In that instant, I recall every moment in my life when I've wanted to say something and haven't and regret each one bitterly. "When I have children, they—they're gonna look up to you, no matter what happens. You'll be their hero."

"I'm not a hero," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut and pulling away, "I'm _not_."

Phil chuckles, "Yes you are. I just wish I could get you to see that."

I laugh breathlessly. It's weird to think that this is the last time I'll see this man, my friend, ever again; that he will have to go on and live his life with me cut suddenly and horribly out of it.

"You're worth ten of the others," he insists now, as he did when we were first reunited. Was that only four days ago?

"_T-minus thirty seconds. Tributes, please step towards your platforms._"

My lungs feel crushed now. With unbearably gentle hands, Phil steers me towards the chute.

"Good luck, Cap."

I step robotically inside. When this door shuts, it's silently and it's only when I raise a hand to wave to Phil that I discover that I'm locked in here.

My breath comes in urgent pants now. The end—the beginning—_something_—is so close upon me now, too close, the walls are closing in, it's too tight, no air…

Through swimming eyes, I watch Phil's face. He's schooled himself into appearing calm and places a hand, splayed, on his own chest to remind me to breath. He gives me a final nod.

"_Fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen_."

The chute is soundless. I hear myself (the rustle of my clothes, the rasp of my breath, the drum of my heart) but all outside noise is cancelled. I see Phil as if on a muted television.

So, when the door to the prep room bursts open and guards—Peacekeepers—charge in, I don't hear them, can't quite register that they're real and there. Their gloved hands seize Phil, push his shoulders, force him to his knees. Under their black-tinted visors, their mouths work furiously, shouting. Obscenities spray like spit before one of them lifts his gun and furiously cracks the butt across the crown of Phil's head. It takes the split of his skin—the gush of blood, horribly and vividly scarlet—to gash apart of the fog in my mind.

"No—_no!_"

"_Three. Two. One_."

The platform begins to elevate even as I thump at my clear cage. The Peacekeepers pay no heed to the screaming Tribute and I'm forced upwards with the sight of Phil, crumpled in a puddle of blood, carved into me like a brand.

The world around me is grey.

* * *

For a moment, still horrified, still sick, I do not quite understand. Comprehension comes to me in degrees:

First, the sky over my head is grey-white with clouds. Dully, I wonder if it will rain.

Then, I realize that not all of the grey is cloud. Beasts tower above me, straight and ugly, monsters of stone and glass. The monotony of these creatures is punctuated by popping colours: _Drink Coca-Cola! Coming this fall! Wayne Enterprises._

I look around, baffled, before I realize that the monsters are buildings.

Distantly, I recall being a child and attending school, as all Panem citizens do at least until the age of thirteen. District 12's supplies were meager and our history books extremely dated. One day in particular leaps out at me: curling up at the back of the grimy schoolroom, laying a book in my scrawny lap, peeping at passages about our country before the downfall of the government resulted in the rise of Panem.

Now, I look around—not at my fellow Tributes, who also stand on platforms and stare in confusion, but around us. We are positioned in a wide square, surrounded by concrete skyscrapers. Between rows of buildings, I see roads, cloaked in shadow. Old-fashioned advertisements and billboards, bright and cheerful, seem to laugh down at us.

There is no Cornucopia.

In my first Games, the Cornucopia had been a large, ice-blue horn, positioned in the middle of the circle of Tributes. It has always been like that: an obvious and memorable place for the Tributes to find their means of survival and fight for them. Now, there is no such landmark.

I'm finally beginning to feel nervous.

A voice cuts through the tension around us.

"_Ladies and gentlemen! Let the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games begin!_"


	8. The Bloodbath

**A long overdue chapter that, I'm afraid, is really only setting a scene but I'm just happy that I'm writing this again! Sorry about the wait, uni got hectic but it's the Christmas holidays now so hopefully I'll update again soon-ish. In the meantime, enjoy :)**

* * *

Chapter Seven

There is no loud noise, no shout, nothing to indicate when we Tributes should move off of our platforms. We all know instinctively. A heartbeat after the announcer's voice fades from our ears, the first person runs.

But runs _where_?

In that second that hangs between silence and chaos, I stare at the space where the Cornucopia and feel panic. It is not icy-cold, like, fear, but red-hot and suffocating. The blood pounding in my head sounds like a death toll. In that instance—God help me—I don't want to die.

I move.

Around me, Tributes scatter. Grunts and shrieks chase me across the square as fists are turned to in substitution of swords and bows. One woman (in the havoc, I can't recognize her) tackles me, claws at my coat and face before another Tribute seizes her and tugs her away by the hair. With meaty hands, he squeezes her neck, twists it and wrings it like a butcher would do a chicken's, until she falls limp and painfully silent in his grasp. He throws her rag-doll body away and advances on me. Already, bloodlust contorts his expression into something animal-like.

I don't think, don't let myself think. I pull back an arm to punch him in the gut and, when he doubles over with an "_Oof!_", drive my elbow into his back. He pitches forward, winded but not terribly hurt, and I take my opportunity.

I run.

I don't stop running for a long time, not until the sky has brightened above the concrete jungle and my legs throb to the point of dysfunction. Even then, after I have found a dark and bare corner to collapse in, behind a set of strange green containers, I don't let myself relax. My twenty-three would-be murderers won't be relaxing. Once I have caught my breath and my calm, I try to decide on a plan of action.

The roads, I learn, are straight stone lines painted with nonsensical white and yellow symbols. At regular intervals, they intersect or branch off from one another. I imagine that, if I was above looking down upon this arena, the city would look much like a grid. The buildings, presumably, can be entered; depending on how big this area is, there could be millions of potential hiding places and bases. The mind boggles.

There is no Cornucopia. No weapons, no obvious supplies.

I have been separated from those whom I would ally with. I didn't even think, didn't stop to protect them. I ache to think of my having let any of them down before the Games have truly begun.

I'm distracted from my thinking by a scuffle in the dank metal containers shielding me from the street. Forcing myself to my feet, I hesitantly pluck up the lid and peer inside. A rat—huge and filthy and bug-eyed—looks right back. I grimace and drop the lid again.

The _clang_ resonates and echoes around the alley. I freeze.

A thump of footfalls, growing louder and louder. Someone is coming.

Before I can do more than duck below the rim of the bins, the shape of a person slides into the alley entrance. My breath sticks in my throat as I strain to hear, strain to keep as still as possible.

The footsteps start again, this time moving into the alley. Fear threatens to crush my chest; is this how I am destined to die, crouched like a coward on the very first day?

It is this thought that propels me upright, pushes me into the alley to go down like a fighter.

Bruce Banner blinks right back at me.

"Bruce!" I cry and we both sag simultaneously in relief, "Thank God, I thought—"

"I followed you, but you were going pretty fast," Bruce grins, "It's taken me the better part of three hours to hunt you down again."

"Three hours?" I repeat, startled. Three hours, yet the cannons indicating how many had died in the Bloodbath (the first day's battle) had not been sounded? "Is that right?"

"Yep. I guess people are still slugging it out at the—" begins Bruce and then he stops himself and furrows his brow. Normally, the starting point is referred to as the Cornucopia, as that is its defining characteristic. What do we call it now?

I decide swiftly to move on, urging Bruce further into the alley, back out of sight, "Have you seen anyone since?"

"No. I didn't see what happened to Gwen and Peter or even Betty back there. Ever since I've been wandering around here, looking for you and trying to figure out this place," Bruce replies, "It must be a huge arena, Steve, either that or the buildings make it seem so. I went into one of them, I can't remember which; it was completely empty, just white tiles and walls. Nothing inside them. They're just decoration, Steve."

"Decoration," I deadpan, "_Decoration_. Then where're the supplies? Are they leaving us to fend for ourselves?"

Bruce shrugs helplessly, "Maybe. I wouldn't be surprised, honestly. After all, we're Victors."

He says this last word with the perfect amount of mock awe and I allow myself a smile. Having him here—an ally, someone to help me at least for some time—is a hell of a comfort.

"They'll probably start the cannons soon," Bruce continues, "Even then, we should find some sort of a place to make camp. We don't know how cold this arena will get at night."

* * *

Bruce and I break into the ground floor of one of the buildings and, sure enough, it is completely bare. The floor is shiny, slippery, and the walls and ceilings are painted stark, bright white. My eyes hurt within a moment and Bruce points out that going up might give us extra protection from Tributes and whatever else might roam this arena; so we find a door marked _STAIRS_,in thick black letters against a green sheet, and proceed up a flight.

The next floor is slightly different. In addition to a window, this room is coloured a kinder shade of blue and, in one of the corners, we find a black rectangular machine, tall as a man, the front of which is simply a pane of glass.

"What are those?" I ask, jabbing a finger at the glass. Behind it, inside the machine, are rows of various, multi-coloured packages, trapped into place by curled rods of metal. Bruce frowns at it and then at the panel next to the glass. On it are a series of buttons: the numbers zero to nine and the letters of the alphabet. He presses a random number and letter and, automatically and to my great surprise, one of the metal rods rocks and a package falls down into nothingness.

"What—?"

"The drawer…look, there's a drawer down there, open it,"

Under the rows of packets, a black handle protrudes unassumingly. Upon being tugged, a drawer slips out and the package awaits us. I lift it out and peer at the wrapper curiously.

"What are Skittles?" I ask. Bruce looks an odd mixture of shocked and overjoyed, and gives out a loud whoop.

"It's _food_, Steve!" he proclaims, "Just trust me on this—it's _food_."

* * *

By the time that the moon rises, Bruce and I have scoured three more floors and discovered new supplies on each one. The food dispensing machine is now boxed in by a crate of drinks (what strange drinks! Some bitter, some sweet, some liquid and some crunched ice—whichever sponsor Starbucks is, I'd like to shake his hand), a stack of thin blankets and, most essentially, the weapons we found on the fourth floor. We have a rusty axe, a sword that Bruce could not quite lift above his head, a stretch of heavy rope and three small daggers that we share between us. I'm just pushing the blade into my sock and wondering if I would be expected to stab someone—stupid question—where there's a crackle and the Capitol anthem startles us.

Bruce recovers first; he's scrambling to the window and peeing out while I'm still pulling the dagger back out of my sock, pressing my fingertips to the jagged cut on my heel and grumbling that other people had done it, why couldn't I?

"Steve, _Steve_, c'mon," Bruce hisses, waving me over. I wriggle to his side on hands and knees and peep into the night sky. The Capitol emblem fades as the final note blares and then the pictures of dead tributes can begin.

It starts with the woman from District 4, a woman with sunken dark eyes and a pointed chin named Halimeda. She was fifty years old and looks it in her picture. Exhausted, weathered, sad. A true Victor. I tap my fist over my heart briefly in recognition as her image flits away.

Next is the old man from District 7. Bruce gasps and collapses against the window sill. "Betty's alive," he breathes harshly and I nod, curling my fingers against my chest again. The face of the second District 7 Tribute appears and we both cringe as we think of the mourning that District will commence tonight.

The next face is Gwen Stacy's.

* * *

"Peter will be alone out there," Bruce mumbles later. He has told me that the rest of the sequence reveals that Districts 10 and 11 had also lost Tributes: Barton's partner and the morphling man. Only six people died on the first day, an unheard-of phenomenon in the Hunger Games.

This washes over me and drips away like water. All I can see is Gwen's image superimposed on the sky, the grandest canvas in existence used only to announce the dead. And Gwen _is _dead. That sweet, round-eyed blonde. A teenage girl. My ally.

The first day and I'm already losing.

"Steve, you listening?" Bruce asks and rolls his eyes when it becomes apparent that I'm not, "Come on, we have to focus. You should've expected to lose someone at the Bloodbath."

"Yeah, it was supposed to be me," I mutter and I've never felt more wretched. I was supposed to die today, but the lack of Cornucopia startled me. I remember strongly the pounding in my gut as that Tribute broke the neck of another and advanced on me; the fear, the repulsion, the urgent need to survive. I _wanted _to live. Is that the worst?

"Can you stop," groans Bruce, "with the self-indulgent noble-guilt thing? Gwen is dead and it's terrible but she's not the first or even the least deserving person to ever die in these Games," When I say nothing, he shifts forward and seizes my shoulders, "Steve. When I got pulled out, I still had bits of a twelve-year-old on my hands. Get some perspective."

I stare at him. He stares right back. There's no pain in his gaze, only detached blankness. He is being very careful not to think too much and a new guilt rolls up my spine.

"Bruce, I'm so—"

"Steve, goddammit," Bruce manages something like a chuckle, "I don't want that, I want you to _think_. Peter's alive out there, no Gwen, and we're his only allies. We have to start looking."

I make myself nod. He's right, after all. I have failed with Gwen but I still have promised to help Bruce and Peter. I have to.

Bruce muses, "Maybe we also start looking for the others. We have weapons now, which gives us an advantage."

"You mean…_kill _people?" I blurt out. He frowns at me.

"Kill Tributes," he corrects, "How else did you expect us to get anywhere?"

I don't say anything. I don't want to admit that I had hoped we could wait out the other Tributes up here. But, of course, they would eventually realize what we already know about the supplies being hidden. We would be sitting ducks. We would—_I _would have to fight to defend us.

_Bravery is not the absence of fear_, I tell myself as we settle down to get some sleep, _but defying it._


	9. The Battle Plans

**How long has it been? Oops. Sorry, guys! I haven't forgotten this story and I promise to see it through to its bitter end…so to speak. **

**Warnings for this chapter: violence, one use of potentially offensive language. I quite liked writing this one, I hope you'll enjoy reading it. Bon chance! Enjoy x**

* * *

Chapter Eight

The next morning, the city is melting.

Blue gapes over our heads as Bruce and I venture out into the streets, clutching weapons in white-knuckled grips. The cup of the sun is burning white and the edges of the towers fuzz and wriggle in the heat. I swallow. Beads of sweat chase a tremor down my spine.

"Stay close," Bruce murmurs, "And stick to the shade."

Shade—what shade? It must be early but the sun is directly over our heads, the pavements are baked entirely by its harsh glow. I throw my partner a look.

"It was cloudy yesterday."

"We're in an arena. Gamemaker tricks," comes the rational reply and Bruce darts off, hiking up his axe to bar across his chest. I follow. I carry only the daggers we had found; as we pass an alley, I nip just into its lip and grab the lid from one of the shining metal cylinders sitting against the wall. Inside is stuffed with scraps of shredded paper and rotting bits of food.

As I catch up, Bruce glances back and frowns at what I'm holding, "Steve, _why_—?"

"A shield," I answer, demonstrating by lifting the lid up and hiding my face. I had got the idea overnight, when I fell asleep. I had dreamt of my trial with the Gamemakers. I was armed with only that smooth silver shield, forced to throw it up in increasing desperation as cackling men threw pink spears, glittering swords, baying axes at my back.

Bruce looks at me then—a quizzical look, as if he could not quite understand what it was he was seeing. After a second, he nods, "Good idea. The best offence is a defence."

"That's what I—"

Too late: he's charging off again, still hunched over his upturned blade, and I have to run after him.

* * *

It's less than an hour later that we encounter the Careers.

We've crept down a million identical streets, grey and hot and intimidated by blocks of buildings, and my head is spinning. It's only by sheer luck and Bruce's alertness that I don't stumble straight across the Careers' camp, and I'm still spluttering even as Bruce heaves me back into the darkness of the neighbouring alley we had just strode up.

They have pitched up in the lobby of one of the buildings, huddled in the cool but with the doors flung open and Sif of District 1 on guard, leaning against the brick wall and surveying the road with sharp eyes and the firm line of her mouth. In the stark sunlight, free of make-up and glitter and a false smile, she's striking.

They boast loudly and freely. They're cocky. They do not fear eavesdroppers, but that is just what Bruce and I are.

"I don't think it'll get better than that Eleven guy," blunders a gravelly and boisterous voice. I recognize the laughter in it. It's the man from District 2. "When I got on him—he was hilarious, he didn't give a shit, I thought the retard was gonna start finger-painting with his own blood—"

"Have some care, Kallikrates," a second deep voice interrupts. This is Thor and he sounds annoyed. "He died with dignity. I would not have—"

"Dignity? What are you talking about, Odinsson? Morphheads have no dignity, pansies have no dignity—"

"He had the dignity of a Victor, you forget," Sif cuts in, without even looking over her shoulder at them, "We are all Victors and we all deserve respect for that."

Bruce and I share a startled look. There must be something odd in the wine in District 1.

There is an angry pause among the Careers, until a tinkling voice slips into its space, "At any rate, there are still eighteen of us. We need to decide where next to go."

District 2's female Tribute was a heavyset, fair-haired girl with a deceptively sweet smile named Niko. Even now, I can imagine her fingers twirling the strands of her hair as she muses on who next to kill.

"I think we ought to hunt down the redhead. Twelve's girl."

My muscles seize up. Shock pours, sickeningly warm, into the pit of my belly and I only vaguely register Bruce's hand clamping down on my arm—not to catch me or stop me, but simply to hold me.

"The Twelve from Twelve," Kallikrates quips and Niko giggles.

"She is the biggest threat," Sif concedes, "and wherever she is, the Eight will be."

"We're agreed, then," asks Niko, sounding plummy pleased.

"Don't _I_ get a say?"

I almost fall over at this. If I had, Bruce would have been too stunned to stop me.

What was _Stark _doing with the Careers?

"You do so love the sound of your own voice," sighs Sif. Stark's bark of amusement is short and loud.

"You're a doll, Sif. Don't you think Barton and Romanoff will be expecting you to go straight for them?"

A second silence, contemplative. I twist around and make frantic gestures at Bruce, who nods urgently. We're agreed then. We don't know what the hell Stark thinks he's doing.

"Carry on, Stark," Thor says gruffly.

"Consider this. Romanoff the only person—_only person ever_—to score a Twelve in ever. She knows she's hot shit. So she'll be getting ready for one hell of an assault. And she's got Clint Barton on her side. Remember Clint, the jolly fellow who was never captured on camera, who killed all his competitors from fifty feet away? That guy. They're holed up somewhere expecting us to go after them, guns blazing, and try to finish them before we pick off the littler ones. So we don't do that. We gather ammo. We learn the terrain. We get rid of the other Tributes. And then they're boxed in. Nowhere to run. They're ours. _Comprende_?"

This takes a few minutes to sink in. I flex my fingers ineffectively against the corner of the wall. I'm not warm anymore, I'm boiling hot. I'm _angry_, angrier than I have been since—since—

I thought Stark was my friend.

Bruce sense this. His hand, still wrapped around my bicep, tugs now and coaxes me to face him. His expression is distantly sad, yet resolved. He shakes his head.

There are no friends in the Hunger Games.

"A good plan!" booms Thor and there's a clatter, "You're clever, Stark."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"So we wait," Niko questions, still gentle, still syrupy, "for them to track us down like sitting ducks, Tony?"

"That's what I'm thinking. Can you knock that voice off now, Nick? No offence, but every time I hear it it's like a drill through my skull."

Another pull at my arm. Bruce points back down the alley and raises his eyebrows in command. Obediently, I follow him away from the laughter of the Careers.

* * *

"They'll kill him," I reason, once we're far enough away, "They'll use him then they'll kill him. That's what they always do."

"I wouldn't be so sure," says Bruce. His brow is furrowed. "Tony has a lot of brains, a lot of guts and a lot of sway in the Capitol. He must have some sort of game going on. He always keeps his cards close to his chest."

"Do you know him well?"

Bruce is silent for a long while, long enough that we reach the end of the street and bend round to meet a new one. Just as I start to rifle for a new topic to broach, Bruce finally replies, "We do science together."

"Science?"

I can't help but sound incredulous. Bruce perhaps realises how ridiculous it sounds because he chuckles.

"We—yeah. Whenever we meet up during the Games, he takes me round all the fancy labs and gadgets the Capitol has him working on. I've gone to District Three sometimes. He came up to Five once, just to show me this stupid new experiment he was working on. God, he brought a whole fanfare with him!"

Bruce's tone is almost unbearably fond. I can feel the corners of my lips dragging down.

"So you guys were…" I hesitate, flap a hand as though this might illustrate my point, "…_science_?"

Bruce laughs again. Laughter is lovely, I think to myself. It's nice to hear it. It makes even the walls of the arena a little kinder.

"Yeah, Steve, we were science."

* * *

The sun sinks below the rooftops and the temperature plummets with it. By the time the sky is an inky blue, my face and hands sting with cold and I'm grateful that we didn't forget our jackets in our haste that morning.

Our jackets.

Bruce calls my name in confusion when I stop in the middle of the street but I barely hear him. I'm miles away; I'm in the Capitol, I'm in an narrow tube and my scream is sucking out the air, my jacket drips with wet darkness, with blood, with Phil Coulson's blood.

"I need to sit down," I whisper, stretching the stickiness in my throat. Bruce approaches me cautiously.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

I can't even bear to say it. I want to, want to like a drowning man wants to breathe or a stranded one yearns to drink, but then something glimmers on the side of a building and I remember that we are not alone.

I spoke too much in my interview because I could not be hurt but Phil could and had been.

If I said anything now—if I shattered in the hands of the one person left in the world I might trust—then who would be hurt next? Chester Phillips' face flashes into my mind. Lorraine Belle's. Peggy's and the purple pool under the skin of her temple.

_I honestly thought I was free_.

"I just—we need to rest. We need to keep our strength up."

I sound unconvincing even to my ears but Bruce lets me lie to him. He nods and, with cruelly careful hands, guides me towards a building and kicks open the doors. He leans in and listens for a moment.

"I think this one is clear."

That's when a shriek rips through the silence.

I don't even get a chance to jump before it's cut off with the suddenness of a falling knife and then Bruce and I are running. Tiredness, fear, death, all of that is shoved from my thoughts because all I can think is that it might be Peter, it might be the boy I had promised to help and I need to keep them safe, I need to give the Capitol what they want.

We skid around a corner. We freeze.

A woman is spread-eagled on the fall, still twitching, still aborting little gasps of distress. Blood, vibrant and disturbingly red in the moonlight, swells against the banks of the long gash in her abdomen and flood her shirt, her trembling hands, the rough concrete of the pavement. It is Allegra, the District 3 women, Tony's partner, and her dark eyes, shining with the last dregs of hope, flick to us.

"The kid," she wheezes and her hand jerks up to reach for us, "The _kid_…"

I don't quite realise what she's asking me, too transfixed am I with the slow river of blood tracking down her side, but Bruce is already moving, kneeling by the second body. His head is turned to face me. I don't recognize him, though I think he's from 9. He's on his front, also still breathing, also quivering. There's a handle standing upright on his back; the whole length of the preceding blade must be snug between his ribs. From the dribble of blood leaking from his mouth, I'd say a lung must have been stabbed.

The man gives one final, feeble groan and then goes limp against the ground. Bruce bows his head for a moment—I can imagine his closed eyes, his last good word for a human life pulled away even in these awful Games—and then reaches for the knife because there's no sense wasting a weapon.

"Hey," cries a voice, "T-that's mine!"

The lucky Tribute bursts from the shadows and yanks his knife from Bruce's stunned grip. He's lanky and skinny; in the black of night, he seems distorted, not quite right, something less than and more than human all at once. His gaze, when he discovers me, blazes like cold flame.

It's Peter.

"The kid," murmurs Allegra and then her eyes shutter closed. Twin cannon blasts split the sky.


End file.
